Wring

After July’s torrent

after the pickup spun treads

after tying blue bandanas like bandits,

the cacophony of wandering gliders and slaty skinners

diffused into one mosquito hum

until it, too, buzzed away

leaving me frozen like Apollo’s Daphne, a monument

engulfed in anarchy of aster,

red deadnettle, wild bergamot,

yellow trout lily

tugging at ankles, luring smells that

sank me to my knees

begging petals to forgive crushing steps

with Earth sipping tears like summer dew

woven into Daybreak’s veil, lifted

by one prairie warbler pecking seeds and staring:

I wring my shirt,

a wrinkled coil pressed into soil, lay

bare

to dry in the wake.